


word of mouth

by LazuliQuetzal



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Gen, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazuliQuetzal/pseuds/LazuliQuetzal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Puberty, Cassandra thinks as she pokes her head into the room, is worse for older siblings than it is for the one going through puberty. Dick bemoans the loss of his adorable ten-year-old assassin.</p><p>(Jason wrinkles his nose at the comparison, Tim places his hand on Dick’s forehead, as though checking for a fever.)</p><p>Cassandra, on the other hand, grabs one of the miscellaneous burner phones Bruce keeps in a drawer in the kitchen and enters the demon’s lair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	word of mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Cass is hard to pin down. I really, really need practice with her character.
> 
> I also need some Cass and Damian sibling bonding, because that's not really something that's explored very often.

Damian sulks on the couch, glaring at nothing in particular, but glaring nonetheless.

It's bad enough that the rest of the family is keeping to the very edges of the living room as they pass through. It's bad enough that Dick is shooting worried glances through the doorway when he walks by. It's bad enough that Tim, who makes it a point to never back down from Damian’s confrontational remarks, is avoiding that wing of the Manor entirely.

Puberty, Cassandra thinks as she pokes her head into the room, is worse for older siblings than it is for the one going through puberty. Dick laments the loss of his adorable ten-year-old assassin.

(Jason wrinkles his nose at the comparison, Tim places his hand on Dick’s forehead, as though checking for a fever).

Cassandra, on the other hand, grabs one of the miscellaneous burner phones Bruce keeps in a drawer in the kitchen, and enters the demon’s lair.

She lets her feet pad on the floor, giving Damian fair warning before she hurdles over the back of the couch and slams into the cushions, causing a slight displacement that sends Damian up a good eight inches into the air.

He glances at her sullenly. His arms are crossed and his back slouched; his feet are up on the couch, with his toes curled inwards. “Cain,” he says, with the body language of a long-suffering soul resigned to another unlucky lot in life.

“Wayne,” she mimics, resisting the urge to shake the boy by the shoulders and chant _‘you are becoming your brooding father’_ until he responds like the thirteen-year-old boy he is. She sits cross-legged and waits patiently, knowing that Damian can tell she's expecting a reply.

Instead, Damian settles back into the couch, already resigned to her presence, and returns to burning a hole in the coffee table with his glare.

Cass mentally sighs. Her brothers were always so _dramatic_.

“You know,” she says, as she plops herself even closer to Damian and trapping him between the armrest of the couch and her own self, “It's _rude_ to ignore your older sister.”

“You did not initiate further conversation,” Damian protests.

Cass gives him a _look_ and Damian stills before conceding the point with a small lowering of his head.

“Just because you're mad at the world right now doesn't mean you should take it out on me,” Cass lectures.

Damian frowns a little. He meets Cass’s eyes and nods in apology.

Cassandra smiles.

“You know what will cheer you up?” she asks, pulling out the phone she took from the kitchen.

Damian blinks in surprise. “A… phone call?”

It's the only thing one can do with the phone, anyway. The burner phone is untraceable and has good sound quality, but it's also a ridiculously old flip phone that's built like a brick.

Cass flips the phone open and mashes a series of numbers into the dialpad. Damian watches, curious. She sets the phone on speaker and the rings sound throughout the room they're in.

_One. Two. Three._

On the fourth ring, there's a click, and a voice sounds through the speakers, high-pitched and nasally.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” Cass replies, not even bothering to disguise her voice. “This is Green Lantern from the Justice League calling to inform you that your area has been infested with bioluminescent worms.”

Damian shoots Cass his own  _look_ , somewhere between amused and horrified, but significantly closer to the latter. Cass, of course, ignores the expression in the way only a middle child can.

“Is this some sort of joke?” The person asks.

“I assure you, this is most definitely not a joke.”

“I don’t have time for stupid teenagers,” the person hisses, and there’s a click followed by the sound of a dead line.

Cass stares at the phone for three seconds before grabbing it and mashing in another number.

“What is wrong with you?” Damian asks.

“Who should I be next?” Cass asks him. “I’m thinking Superman.”

Damian throws his hands up in the air. “You didn’t even bother changing your voice!” he says. “You can’t just --”

He’s cut off as the phone begins to ring again. He turns to Cass, an incredulous look on his face.

She has the audacity to _shrug._

There's a click.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” Cass says. “This is your local environmental committee. I’m calling to warn you about the dangers of encountering dragonflies in your area.”

“...Dragonflies?” The person asks, skeptical. “Is that even a problem?”

“I'm afraid you misunderstand,” Cass says, her voice surprisingly polished and smooth for one who never really talks to people outside of their line of work. “Dragon flies. As in, fly-sized dragons. The Justice League has called us to inform you to stay indoors until the problem has been dealt with.”

“What kind of joke is this?” the person on the other end of the line asks, anger leaking into their voice.

“I can have Superman verify it, if you wish.”

“I’d like to speak with him myself,” the person says, with righteous indignation.

“Please hold.”

Cass pulls out her iPod and selects a song. There's a short little spiff with a pan flute before light-hearted strings and jazzy piano sounds out.

_I've been working on the railroad…_

“What the hell?” the person on the other end mutters into the phone.

Damian stares at Cass incredulously.

 _Stop it!_ Damian mouths.

 _Do the voice thing,_ She mouths back, and scoots the phone closer to him.

He turns an entertaining shade of red before shaking his head furiously.

Before he can blink, Cass is gripping him by the shoulders with her left hand, and he literally _cannot move._

His heart pounds in his chest -- Cass could render his whole body unusable with a single twist -- but then she pulls out a bright red marker with her free hand and his heart stops completely.

“You wouldn't,” he hisses, his mind flashing back to a time when Dick Grayson stumbled into the Cave, a crudely drawn goatee scribbled onto his face in a horrendous shade of green. His skin was pinkish, from trying to scrub off the marker, but whatever Cass did, it _stayed._

(Bruce made him patrol as Nightwing, too, his domino mask doing nothing to cover up the unfortunate design. His chin was a strange greenish shade for a good five days.)

She doesn't reply, only holds the marker up to her mouth and yanks the cap off with her teeth.

Damian’s eyes widen, and she reads the submittal in his body language because her grip loosens just enough for him to lean over and shut the music off.

Damian clears his throat. “Hello,” he says, in a perfect imitation of Clark Kent’s Superman voice -- complete with the vague Kansas accent and the undercurrent of ‘boy scout’.

“Mr. Superman?” the person asks.

“That's me,” Damian says, his voice disguised.

The following conversation is ridiculous and over-the-top, but even worse is that the person on the other end believes every second of it. It's not even funny -- it's plain pathetic that a grown human being can accept that the miniature dragons were spontaneously generated when Hawkwoman was infected by some reptilian disease and barfed out the little fire breathing pests.

(Damian will have to remember that Superman’s voice can talk him out of any situation.)

Cass is still holding him in a death grip, but then she looks him in the eye and beams. With a small amount of surprise, Damian realizes that he feels a lot better than he did earlier. Somehow, reminding himself of how truly pitiful the human race can be has managed to cheer him up.

And when Cass begins to mash in another number, Damian finds that he’s already planning the next story he’s going to spew out to another total stranger.


End file.
